


the flowers you nearly brought (have lasted all this while)

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Series: the line between hate / love is drawn by our fingertips [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Just smut, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smutty Angst, am i projecting, ish, pwp??maybe, why am i writing smut for the founding fathers of america jesus christ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: Title taken off of the poem Flowers, by Wendy Cope."Thomas stirs, and Hamilton reaches out before he can think about it.His fingers brush over Thomas's brow. Gentle. He traces the lines of Thomas's face, soft and tender in sleep. This is the Thomas his lovers wake up to, Hamilton thinks. This is the Thomas to whom you bring breakfast in bed, whom kisses you thanks and sucks hickies into your throat so that they stay snugly tucked under collars he pressed for the whole day."Flowers, dreaded small talk, kisses and the word "mine" can be the undoing of a man.





	

The doorbell rings. 

Hamilton ignores it for a while. He chews on the end of his pencil as he goes over the draft for an address, tapping his fingers distractedly on his desk. He's already edited and printed it out thrice, all five papers, and it's wasteful but he's not one to half ass things, even if it's just a boring old company function Washington insists, for some reason, throwing.

It rings again.

He sighs, peels himself off of the chair and goes to the door, feet snug in his turtle slippers.

'Took you long enough.'

Thomas stands on his doorstep, a shit eating grin plastered over his face that's only slightly wavering from how long Hamilton made him wait. He's wearing a low V neck under a navy blue suit jacket, and faded blue jeans.

Hamilton entertains the notion of slamming the door in his face and locking it.

'Don't you dare,' Thomas says, reading the look on his face. He slips past Hamilton into the house, and the latter only shuts the door behind him, resigning himself to this unfortunate turn of events.

Not a new one, though.

'How's the address coming along?'

'I'd rather skip to the part where we fuck,' Hamilton says. It's cold, maybe. He doesn't know if he cares: apathy is a strange flavour on his tongue. 'Small talk is for people with nothing to say.'

Thomas yanks him in, and he huffs, hands on Thomas's chest as if to push him away.

_as if._

He swallows as Thomas looks him over, a feral look glinting in those seemingly bottomless dark eyes, and then lets go so fast Hamilton is reeling from the loss. Touching Thomas always feels so fucking strange, like he's high on every inch of skin, every angry mark left on eager bodies.

'You gonna undress for me?'

'Fuck you.'

Thomas's grin widens. 

A moment later they're in Hamilton's bedroom, a mound of "okay" clothes on the designated chair and the ones that aren't in heaps on the floor. Thomas has his hands in Hamilton's hair and it  _hurts_ as he tugs, chasing the taste of Hamilton's lower lip with his tongue and teeth.

Hamilton groans, filthy and deep, and lets himself be pushed onto the bed, lets Thomas bite till his lips are numb and push his hands up Hamilton's shirt, raking over the fine hair on his chest.

Touching Thomas is...something.

 _'Fuck,'_ He whines, and Thomas's lips curl against his.

'Such a fucking slut,' He says, almost a growl, and Hamilton hates it. He does. He shuts his eyes as Thomas pushes his shirt upwards, rakes his teeth gently over Hamilton's abdomen and then pushes them deeper in, angry and sharp. His words are muffled against Hamilton's burning skin, but the latter knows every insult by heart anyway. 'You're so touch deprived you could get off on this alone, huh? I could tie you to the bed and watch you rut into the mattress as I bit you all over.'

Hamilton shivers, his hands balling against the sheets. Sweat travels from his neck down into the pillows, and Thomas drags his fucking mouth away from Hamilton's body just to give him a kiss that steals the air from his lungs.

He's gasping by the time Thomas reaches his jeans, fondling his ass and mouthing at his cock, as if he's trying to taste the precome through Hamilton's trousers.

'Wanna get my mouth on you,' Thomas murmurs, almost biting, and Hamilton nearly chokes.

'Nnh -'

Thomas plays with his zipper for a bit, mouth still working through the jeans, till Hamilton is a sweaty, shivery mess. 

'Th-Thomas, I -'

'Look at you, all worked up,' Thomas says, and with one sharp, almost painful movement he drags Hamilton's jeans down to his ankles, and tugs his boxers free. Thomas is still fully dressed, and his erection is outlined by those tight, faded blue jeans. 'Want my cock that bad, Hamilton? Or is it my mouth? Just me, isn't it. Bet you'd like for me to just hold you down and fuck you till you're crying, then suck you off.'

Hamilton twists in humiliation, a groan dying in his throat.

'Condom,' He croaks, and Thomas pulls one out of his back pocket, the sneaky fucker.

'Who said I'm going to fuck you? Maybe I'll just leave you here like this and let Washington know his secretary is a hungry cockslut.' Hamilton's going insane. He watches Thomas lose the jacket, slipping out of it and dropping it as if it hadn't cost more than all of Hamilton's combined, and squirms, feeling uncomfortable in his exposure.

'Fuck,  _please.'_

He stills as Thomas prepares him, slides his fingers in and out of him so smoothly Hamilton bites down on a moan at every time it's not as smooth. 

'F-fuck,' He shivers, burying his face in the cold bedsheets and curling his fists. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck you, fuck your stupid face -'

Thomas laughs and adds a third finger.

'You like my stupid face, don't you?'

'Fuck you,' Hamilton spits, but he's reeling with the loss when Thomas pulls his hand away, his hole slicked up and loose, and when Thomas presses his clothed cock to it, he lets out a small whimper that is almost the beginning of the Lord's prayer, God forbid the thought. 'Thomas, Thomas -'

'Look at you,' Thomas says, and then again, in a voice so soft and reverent it tugs at something inside of Hamilton, 'look at you.'

He hates it.

There's a clinking sound as Thomas's stupid fucking jeans hit the floor.

He bites into the bedspread as Thomas sinks into him, hard and thick and God if Hamilton isn't arching backwards into him, curses spilling from clenched teeth and fingers tightening in their hold. 

'Fuck,' Thomas says, and Hamilton grunts. He thrusts, and every movement rocks Hamilton's body from head to toe.

He's like a hormonal teenager around Thomas, almost always ready to spend, and a babble of arousal and uncontrollable desire. 

'Oh, f-fuck,  _fuck, fuck -'_

'Christ, you're so fuckin' -' Thomas's body is warm, pressed against his, and Hamilton is shaking as he rocks into the rhythm, lips trembling as they try to form words, responses. 'H-hold still, fuck,' and he groans, fingers slippery on Hamilton's sides, so tight in their hold they're burning on his skin.

'Go h-harder, you fucking  _asshole, I can - c-can take it.'_

Thomas grins against Hamilton's back, mouth pressing and sliding down the sweaty arch, and Hamilton twists, moaning.

His cock is trapped between the sheets and his body, and he reaches for it, palms it and desperately rocks his hips, rutting into the mattress for all the friction he can get to get him off.

'Mine,' Thomas growls, against the shaky slopes of Hamilton's shoulders, and the latter moans as he comes all over his hand and the bedspread.

Thomas takes a little while longer. He hums Hamilton's name into feverishly hot skin - Hamilton would know, it's his, after all - and his hands rove, grabbing and pinching and raking clipped nails over soft, sensitive flesh. 

Hamilton's almost shaking with overstimulation when finally Thomas gets off, a soft, barely audible moan and then he's slumping against Hamilton, breathing heavy.

'Fuck, fuck you,' Hamilton says, breathless.

Thomas laughs, dry, and tilts his head back so his curls fall back over his shoulders, a dark tumble.

'You wish, darlin'.'

 

* * *

 

_Mine._

Hamilton tries not to think too much about it.

He turns his face upwards into the spray of shower water and waits, the droplets landing heavily and running down his face, neck, parts of his body still sensitive from Thomas's rough hands that could at the same time be so gentle.

He takes his time, because he knows nobody will be waiting for him.

And sure enough, when he gets out, yanking a pair of old jeans up to his waistline, Thomas is gone, leaving nothing but a messy bedspread and another condom in the bin.

Hamilton pushes the disappointment down deep, reminds himself he got an amazing orgasm and no strings attached out of it, and tries to convince himself it won't be what he thinks of all week: Thomas's hands on his body, Thomas kissing and biting where sleeves and collars can cover, Thomas smelling like sex and sweat afterwards.

'Fuck you,' He says, to the dip in the mattress where Thomas had cupped his ass and fucked him stupid, and it almost smiles in return.

 

* * *

 

If there is a God, Hamilton thinks, miserably, he probably hates Alexander Hamilton.

He stares at the copy of the address Washington rejected, claiming it was too divisive - _you can't always win arguments, Hamilton, it'll make us seem like children_ \- and sulks, putting his pencil between his teeth and trying to see what went wrong,  _I even let John Adams's bullshit slide there, I complimented Charles Lee?_ To be fair, he sees where Washington is coming from, but the marketing department needs to seriously step their game up.

'Alex, hey.'

Laurens squeezes his shoulders gently, trying to ease the tension out of them. Hamilton almost turns to press a kiss against his freckled face.

He stops himself just in time: what they had, however important a milestone in Hamilton's history, needs to be left as it is. History. Instead, he relaxes into Laurens' strong, careful hands and tries to imagine what a normal person's stress levels would be like.

'Thanks,' He mumbles.

'No prob. Don't stress over the address, okay? - wow, that rhymed, Herc is gonna get a kick out of that. But yeah, you still have plenty of time, and Washington's not gonna fire you because you can't write less angrily.'

'I don't write angrily.'

'Tut, baby girl,' Laurens says, and that's not fair, because that's all he used to call Hamilton. 'Try to get some sleep soon, huh?'

He leaves, a breeze of fresh air that smells faintly of a shampoo Hamilton remembers pressing his face to, deeply rooted in pillows and a bed that seemed big enough for both Hamilton and him.

'Fuck,' Hamilton says.

He does not stop stressing over the address. He types out a new draft, completely different, and trashes the one Washington marked over in red. He types out three, just to prove that he does  _not_ write angrily.

It doesn't matter that no one will believe him when they see the crease in his brow or the way his fingers jab at his mechanical keyboard like he's longing to poke them into someone - Thomas's - eyes. It doesn't matter that no one comes in at all save for Freidrich, the eccentric, flamboyantly gay European man who came to work a few months ago and hasn't stopped chatting up Ben Walker from finance, and all Friedrich wants is to make sure he knows that he should've gone home a half hour ago and that he's working himself too hard.

This Hamilton  _knows._

When Friedrich threatens to publish really bad written fanfiction of him and Laurens online, that's when Hamilton packs up and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Thomas picks up on the fourth ring. He sounds smug, which makes Hamilton angry.

'Did you want something?'

'My water pipe is leaking,' Hamilton says, just in case anyone else is listening in on the other end. 'I'd like you to come take a look at it.'

'Should I bring poundcake, like last time?'

Hamilton scoffs. Thomas had seen the copy of 11.22.63 on his desk, and had given him hell for it.

'Please,' He says, and there's a short, sharp laugh, and then a click. Hamilton puts down the phone. His palms are sweaty. Now, then, to pretend he's typing out something important until Thomas gets here.

After about five minutes he starts getting fidgety.

Hamilton goes to the kitchen and tries not to look at the undone dishes piling up in the sink, and the food wrappers laying around. John would give him hell for it. Eliza would give him hell for it. But John is back in South Carolina as he always is during the weekend, and Eliza is...also, interestingly, history.

He shakes the memory away.

'Fuck.'

The fridge is empty, save for eggs, and he's not planning on using the faulty stove anytime soon. When was the last time he ate a whole meal? He doesn't know.

There's a ring, and he passes his hand over his eyes, brushes stray strands of hair behind his ears.

'I brought poundcake,' Thomas says. He's dressed in magenta, today, and his hair is pulled back into a lazy ponytail that Hamilton, for some odd reason, abhors. 'Did you want some before or after we fuck?'

Hamilton scowls. He feels it wrinkle his face.

'You're not funny.'

'I'm hilarious, darlin'.'

His head feels light. Maybe it's just Thomas. Thomas, and his ever aggravating sense of style, eye catching and fucking obnoxious, and the way he smells like cologne Hamilton can't even walk past because of how expensive it is, and -

Thomas touches his face. It's almost tender.

'You're spacing out.'

'Fuck off,' Hamilton replies, reaching out to shove him off the doorstep, but a certain, all too familiar dizziness overtakes him and he lurches forward. 

Thomas makes a soft sound of surprise as he catches him, wrapping an arm around Hamilton's waist and pressing his nose into his hair. It feels intimate. It makes something scratch inside of Hamilton's ribcage. He mumbles, maybe a protest.

'Hamilton, I really think poundcake is a little too sweet of a dessert for now, when you're this out of it.'

'I'm  _fine.'_

Thomas doesn't seem to hear him.

They move to Hamilton's bed, stealing kisses, Thomas finding new places to sink his teeth into in the map he's made of Hamilton's body only with his mouth. 

'Thomas,' Hamilton says, wanting him to move faster, head already heavy, 'please, I -'

'Hush.'

Thomas kisses him until his eyes feel like weights. He fights to stay awake, grabs hold of Thomas's sturdy arms and digs his nails in in hopes it will spur the man onto something more violent, but Thomas only smiles against his lips and kisses deeper in, not quite erotic but more drowsy, like he's trying to - and God forbid the thought - seduce Hamilton instead of destroy him.

'Th -'

Thomas doesn't let him get a word in edgewise. His hands tickle the hairs on Hamilton's belly, stroking and soothing. He mumbles words Hamilton can't make out into his open mouth, which aggravates Hamilton, but not quite enough that it angers him.

Fuck.

He's falling asleep, and Thomas will laugh at him. Silly, stupid Hamilton, calling him over for a way to get out of his stupid head, and then falling asleep on him.

'Mine,' Thomas says, and this time Hamilton makes it out.

His lips part: he wants to say something, but Thomas only kisses and kisses till he closes them again. And then kisses his eyelids when they fall shut, succumb to a growing numbness in Hamilton's body. A body now cradled against another one, warm and alive and angry, hard lines. Stiffness Thomas smooths out with fingers that left red marks and lips that sucked bruises into skin.

Hamilton stops thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

It's dark when he wakes up. 

Thomas is spooning him. One of his fucking long legs rest between Hamilton's, almost possessive, and Hamilton has to bite down the arousal that comes of the thought. He swallows and tries to assess the situation.

Thomas seems asleep. Soft, guttural snores come from his throat, and his right arm is in Hamilton's hair, fingers entangled.

'Oh,' Hamilton says. He feels dizzy.

Carefully, he extracts himself from Thomas's side and slings his legs off the bed. The curtains are tight over any windows, which means he can't ascertain what time of day it is, or if it even is the same day at all. He remembers a time he fell asleep for forty hours straight. 

And winces at the memory that accompanies of him going forty more hours without sleep to compensate for the work he was behind.

Thomas stirs, and Hamilton reaches out before he can think about it.

His fingers brush over Thomas's brow. Gentle. He traces the lines of Thomas's face, soft and tender in sleep. This is the Thomas his lovers wake up to, Hamilton thinks. This is the Thomas to whom you bring breakfast in bed, whom kisses you thanks and sucks hickies into your throat so that they stay snugly tucked under collars he pressed for the whole day.

Hamilton closes his eyes, and he wonders what a life with this Thomas would be like.

 

* * *

 

 

He goes in to work early. Thomas doesn't show for the whole day. Hamilton tries to eat, shoves a protein bar down his throat and pretends it will sit in his stomach long enough to be broken down and digested through his intestinal walls. The illusion is a pretty one, until he promptly has to run for the bathroom and throw it up.

Friedrich sits down with him, goes over the address and rubs circles into Hamilton's back and shoulders to relieve tension, he says, but too many people have tried to carry Hamilton's problems and too many have walked away crushed.

'You Americans and your attitudes to serve your egos,' Friedrich says, but he's smiling.

Maybe it is to serve his ego. Maybe this is all some big ploy to let Washington know how invaluable his right hand man is. A secretary. Lowly. 

Hamilton goes through cups of coffee like he's popping Tic Tacs, and when Laurens, Lafayette and Mulligan show up with cupcakes and revoke his access to the coffee machine, he's already on his seventh. 

'I don't need a cupcake,' He tells them. He eats one anyway, tosses the wrapper into a bin under his desk. He feels dirty for eating it. Like he's being a cheat. 

But he doesn't throw it up.

He can't type. Even when they've all left and he's staring at his laptop and the cursor blinks. He wonders what Thomas is doing. What Thomas was doing. If Thomas woke up to empty sheets and thought of the worst.

He shouldn't feel guilty. Thomas leaves, all the time.

'It shouldn't bother me,' Hamilton says. Out loud. Then he can't stand the thoughts in his own head, reaches for another cupcake and downs the last of his coffee like a shot of vodka. God knows he probably needs one. To get blackout drunk is a priviledge he is no longer privy to.

He goes home and Thomas isn't there.

Maybe some part of him is disappointed. Maybe. The rest of him makes a unanimous decision to skip the shower, brush his greasy - disgusting - hair and hrad straight into his study, where he spends the rest of his day typing the equivalent of a shouting match with himself in his head out and then jamming the delete key. That is until fatigue overcomes him and he slumps forward onto his desk.

 

* * *

 

'Delivery man is here,' Thomas says, green jumper and skinny jeans.

'Wow, you're still alive. Cool.' Oxford button down and dress pants.

'Do eat, for the love of fuck.'

'You look less dead today.'

Bright yellow. Dark purple, bursting. Floral print that would match Hamilton's curtains if Hamilton dusted his fucking curtains. 

He brings macaroni. Even a whole poundcake, at one point, which makes Hamilton sputter until he's blue in the face. Snacks and takeout. Pizza slices, cookies from Virginia. 

'Hi.'

Never goodbyes. Hamilton never allows himself to say goodbye. Too much can be told by how someone bids you goodbye. Goodbyes are the window to the heart, probably, someone old as fuck once said.

'You should just move in,' Hamilton says, one day, without thinking. Thomas is holding a bouquet of flowers that look suspiciously the type that went missing from George the Third's - there were three Georges in the entire company and Hamilton couldn't really be assed to remember them all - desk today, the ones no one was supposed to touch because he had a hissy fit last week and this was Washington's somewhat abrupt, awkward way of apologising for somehow offending him.

Thomas leans over, his eyes crinkling. How crude that someone so repulsive could smile in a way that makes Hamilton's insides melt so easily.

How inconsiderate.

'Are you asking me out, Hamilton?'

'I'm asking you in,' He says. Again, not thinking. His tongue seems to be running off on its own today: just hours ago, he told Laurens he still wasn't over him and probably would never be and that was okay because it meant their relationship had meant something to them both. Or something. 'There's a difference, fuckface. And put the flowers away.'

'Remember what I said the first time I came over?'

Hamilton scowls. He remembers. He remembers sweaty palms and days of questioning what the fuck was wrong with himself and a slow, easy grin clamping down onto his taut shoulders. 

'About flowers?'

'I nearly brought you flowers, but the store was sold out.' 

'And then a few weeks later, you told me you'd nearly brought me flowers again.'

'They fell into the gutter.'

'There weren't any you thought I'd like.'

'I lost my wallet.'

'You gave them away to a pretty girl crossing the street.'

Hamilton's lip is lifting in an annoying way that irks him. Thomas kisses where it lifts. And then the other side. And then he makes a soft noise that twists something in Hamilton's ribcage, and takes Hamilton's face in his hands and just kisses him senseless.

'I bought Eliza flowers for our anniversary once,' Hamilton says, mind going everywhere and nowhere. 'I got the wrong type and she was allergic and everywhere was just her sneezing...I was sorry.'

'Mm,' Thomas nips at his neck, lifts the smaller man against the wall and parts his legs. Hamilton shivers.

'What are your favourite type of flowers?'

'Move in with me,' He gasps, as Thomas works his way down Hamilton's heaving chest, sucks and bites at his nipples, sensitive even now. 

'I hate small talk, too.'

'Fuck -'

'I'll move in with you.'

'Dandelions,' Hamilton says, when they're both lying on his small bed and Thomas is mouthing almost affectionately at the shell of his ear, soft and so gentle something breaks inside of him. 'I like dandelions.'

'They're weeds.'

'Yes.'

Maybe Thomas understands.

 

* * *

 

'We'll be late for dinner if you don't stop fucking fussing,' Hamilton grits from between his teeth, and Thomas pulls the ribbon on aforementioned secretary's hair tight, places a small kiss on the back of his neck. 

'Making sure you look perfect, darlin'.'

Hamilton swallows his pride and lets Thomas smooth out the creases in his jacket, however anxious he is to get to the function as quickly as possible - he has to host, tonight, and a hair out of place won't make as much impact as tardiness will.

'Thank you,' He says, and Thomas smiles.

His fingers slip out of Hamilton's as soon as they step out of the taxi, but Hamilton doesn't take it personally, not even when Thomas sidles up to a woman twice Hamilton's size with painted lips Henry Laurens would say belonged on a whore and a neckline plunging so low it's beginning to resemble John Adams' work ethic.

Because it's him Thomas fixes his eyes on when he gives a nervous clear of his throat and steps out to address the crowd, his hand Thomas tucks his into when he pulls him far away from the eyes of their knowing coworkers, him that Thomas drags in for a brisk kiss and a whispered word, one that leaves the hairs on the back of Hamilton's neck tingling like they've been burnt:

_mine_

like it's seared into skin with the same fire Thomas put out in Hamilton. 

And of course, it's him to whom the flowers Friedrich starts cooing over and Washington shoots him strange looks because he  _swears_ he ordered the exact batch for Lafayette a few days ago where he tried to keep his order and intentions hidden from Hamilton which was fucking ridiculous as Hamilton is his  _secretary,_ he finds out his boss's shit for a living, are addressed to.

Thomas grins for especially long when he comes home with them tucked under his arm, a half annoyed, half pleasantly surprised look on his face.

'Didn't get lost in the gutter, did they?'

'Shut up,' Hamilton says, almost fond, and then Thomas attacks him with a kiss, and he wonders if this is what contentment feels like.

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on Tumblr @Theswiftone27 or on Instagram @asian_dreamdaddy.


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